Lotus and mandala tattoo on a forearm

The lotus in Bay Nine opened on the third day of the cold cycle, which Mama would have called bad luck, since she always said nothing that pretty should bloom in the dark. I sat with it for an hour before the lamps came up. Its petals are fine as the bristles of a brush, and each one folds into the next like a sum that keeps coming out even. You would hate how patient it is.

Here is the thing I have not told the council. The channel plan Grandpa drew on the back of the tide ledger is not a plan for pipes. Last night I laid his ink over the bay schematics and the ring of dots lines up with every pump station on the spine. He was not drawing water. He was drawing where the families would sleep when the water came back.

The scrolls run between the dots the way the paisley ran through his wool shawls on the harbour walk, always looping back to the start. I think each dot is a household and each curl is the rope that ties them to the next. Nothing on that sheet is decoration.

I am sending it to you with the seed stock. Do not show it to the outbound office. Keep it folded in the bread tin where the damp cannot reach it, and when you reach Halvard Station, count the dots for me and tell me whether the number is ours.

Love, Maren